Scarecrow Gods (13 page)

Simon peeled himself from the bush, the process slow, each movement sending pain ripping through his body. By the time he’d pried himself free, the dog had stopped barking and was wolfing down a sandwich from one of the lunch boxes Simon had dropped in his rush to get away. Only the occasional growl and wag of its tail indicated the animal was still paying attention to him.

Simon looked around, but saw no sign of Billy.

Simon called out again, but there was no answer.

Screw it,
thought Simon. Not only was it hotter than hell, but he’d been hurt and needed medical attention. He turned to leave.

Then, from a little farther into the desert, Simon heard the sounds of arguing from two distinct voices—Billy and a woman. Curious, Simon limped in the direction of the sound. Turning sideways, he stepped through a ten-foot high stand of creosote, and there, amidst a circle of colorful saguaros, stood Billy, alone and gesticulating wildly. He was speaking, two voices from one mouth, interfacing with the cacti whose natural green-brown had been replaced by a fascinating montage of color rarely found in nature—polka dots and stripes and paisley. Simon realized that each cacti, usually multi-armed like tall alien creatures, had been amputated until they were human-like, each a body with two arms raised to the sky. And the colors weren’t painted on. The cacti were
clothed
. Somehow Billy, during his dumpster dives and street treks, had collected dozens of pieces of clothing and sewn them onto the saguaros.

Simon squinted. They looked nearly human, like crazy desert scarecrows. But what were they protecting? What were they keeping away?

Simon limped into the circle. He counted thirteen of the clothed cacti. Three wore dresses—a paisley, a light blue knit with a white belt and a yellow and black polka dotted number. Four others wore different versions of cut-off shorts and tank tops. The rest wore pants—legs split, the bottoms fluttering gently in the breeze. Corduroy, polyester, denim, linen. Their shirts ranged from pinstriped button-downs to ragged t-shirts.

The more Simon stared the more they seemed to come alive. He could imagine the pilot of a low-flying aircraft passing over and wondering at the gathering of people. He squinted into the wide expanse of sky and spotted the aerostat—the huge tethered blimp that watched the Mexican border. No. They were too close for aircraft to be allowed to fly.

Simon shook his head at the craziness of it all. Billy walked around, adjusting clothes and mumbling to the scarecrows as if they were real people. Closer now, Simon noticed details he’d missed. Faces. He rubbed his eyes. The heat, even with the mountain breeze, was almost overwhelming. The eyes were made from mica rocks and glittered in the daylight. The mouths were made from bottles, the bottoms forced into the cactus so that only a few inches of the neck remained visible, giving the desert scarecrow a surprised, puckered look.

Stepping closer, still wary of the desert minions, he could hear the sound of the wind passing across the lips of the bottles creating a continual soft moan. The saguaro spoke. Simon spun and gaped at the others. They
all
spoke. As Billy spoke to them, they spoke back, answering him, allowing conversation. The scene was no longer crazy. It was eerie, fast on the way to becoming scary. Simon cocked his head and concentrated on the sound. He heard it beneath the steady stream of Billy’s babble, a chorus of moans from the mouths of the thirteen cacti. They all stared back at Simon, their eyes alive in the sun.

Suddenly, they were more than scarecrows. They were more like idols, or strange Native American gods. The Apache had been here. This was the place of Geronimo and Cochise. And before them? Simon tried hard to remember his history. Anasazi? Whichever tribes had been here had probably worshiped the great saguaro as Gods. Scarecrow Gods.
That was it
. The name seemed perfect. Majestic in their stoic massiveness, these Scarecrow Gods appeared to be Billy’s protectors.

So why were they in a circle? It wasn’t as if old Billy Bones, all one-hundred and forty pounds of him, had uprooted and transplanted thirteen multi-ton cacti. Simon tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry.

“God or fiends?” asked Billy.

Simon stumbled back, almost falling. Billy had sidled up next to him.
God or fiends?
Had the Dirty Bird read his mind?

“God or fiends. Mine all mine. They’re here for me. God or Fiends. I love them and they love me,” said Billy, his arms taking in the circle of saguaro. “They keep me safe.”

“Which?” asked Simon.
God? Like in Scarecrow Gods? Fiends, as in Djinn or something worse?
He remembered the evil that had permeated the air between him and the possessed boy, that palpable, greasiness of the soul. Something one could never miss.
No. Not fiends. There was no evil here. But God? Or Gods?

Billy spoke for him. “Like Simple Simon. Simple Simon and them are God or fiends.” Billy smiled crookedly, his eyes embracing.

God or fiends? God or fiends?
And then the letters snapped into place.

“Good friends. Is that what you’re saying, Billy?”

Billy Bones crossed his arms across his sallow chest and grinned wickedly, his head bobbing up and down.

Simon chuckled. He’d momentarily forgotten Billy’s penchant for wordplay.
God or fiends. HA!

“Do they have names? Who are they? How did they get here, Billy?”

Billy thumped his chest hard. “I am, they are, both are we. Billy Bones and God or fiends.” He nodded severely. “Voices rant on.”

Voices rant on.
Conversation
. Billy’s complex language was becoming easier. Like algebra, you had to attune your mind to it.

“You talk to them? They talk to you?”

“Voices rant on. Voices rant on time lethal.”

Time lethal
.
Simon pondered. Definitely too much like algebra. Almost astrophysics.
Time lethal
. He snapped his fingers and grinned.
All the time. Conversation all the time.

“But what do they say, Billy? When they speak to you?”

Billy stared hard at Simon, like a mother to a naughty boy.

Simon got the message and switched. “Billy. God or fiends voices rant on time lethal…uhh…
aysay ouyay
.”

Billy’s eyes pinched together and his upper lip curled into the universal sign of
huh?

Simon sighed. He wasn’t as quick as Billy. Besides Spanish and passable Arabic, all he knew was Pig Latin—and sadly more Pig than Latin.

He tried again. “Billy. Pay attention, now. God or fiends voices rant on time lethal.” Simon pointed to his own mouth and then at Billy. “Aysay ouyay.”

Billy Bones lurched forward and grabbed Simon around the collar, jerking the Brother close enough for Simon to smell the man’s lunch. The Dirty Bird stared hard into Simon’s eyes.

“Evil’s agent. Evil’s agent in dirty room. Is no amity, Simple Simon. Is no amity, Billy Bones. A rope ends it. Means movies. A rope ends it.”

CHAPTER 4

Monday—June 11th

Chattanooga, Tennessee

The sun dripped with enough humidity that neither Bergen nor Danny felt the urge to leave the confines of their air conditioned realm.

Danny watched as a crow landed upon a branch by his window. Crows should have been the Tennessee State Bird. They were everywhere. Almost as large as eagles, he was just happy they ate garbage instead of little boys, or he would have been carried off long ago like the sailors had been carried away by the Roc in the Seven Voyages of Sinbad.

He was kicked back on his bed, a dog-eared copy of
Lord of the Flies
on his chest, his hands behind his head. Bergen sat on a vinyl cushioned chest flipping slowly through an old
John Carter Warlord of Mars
comic book. A reading copy, it was too worn to retain any real value, unlike the thousand others inside the chest that were tucked inside Mylar bags. Every now and then Bergen would pause to see a four armed Barsoom Warrior hack at a monster. More recently he found himself also pausing when the scantily clad image of Deja Thoris appeared, his eyes dwelling around the space just south of her navel.

Danny’s room was like any kid’s, except with possibly more books. His twin bed sat right inside his door. The chest rested at the foot of his bed. The wall on the other side was filled with shelves his father had put up just last year. Odds and ends, old Burger King toys, a YoYo, some marbles from his uncle and an unused harmonica kept company with over three hundred paperbacks—and Danny had read every one. Against the wall opposite the foot of his bed was an upright dresser and a small desk. To the left of these was an almost floor-to-ceiling window, like all the windows on the bottom lake-side of the split-level. The wall beside the door was his closet. On the other walls were tacked book covers removed from all of his favorite books.

His mother had been furious with him for destroying the books, saying that they’d forever lost their value. To Danny the value was in the adventure. This way he could see the covers and the scenes from the book would flash through his mind. Danny thought the covers were far better than posters. Especially the covers of the Lord of the Rings—together they made one picture that showed all the land, from left to right unraveling the whole incredible tale from Fellowship to the Return of the King.

His father also swore to never let a video game in the house. No Sega, no Super Nintendo, not even computer games. Danny, for all his arguments, really didn’t mind. All he wanted was to have the things that other kids had, but of all his friends, only Clyde and Doug had video games and with the amount of time they spent outside, it seemed a waste, anyway.

And Danny enjoyed his books. When he was nine and sick with the flu for a week, his mother had introduced to him Frodo Baggins, Gandalf and Gollum. He’d recovered by Wednesday, but feigned symptoms, reluctant to return to school when the fate of Middle Earth was being played out between the pages of three crisp, old 1950s paperbacks. He hadn’t looked back since. He’d traveled the
Glory Road
with Heinlein, been a
Mote in God’s Eye
with Niven, studied the politics of robot social integration with Asimov and been a leper hero with Donaldson. He’d been scared by vampires and werewolves and laughed as crosses and silver bullets brought them down. He’d voyaged ancient seas and visited lost lands.

In fiction, he understood the best way to slay a dragon or kill an alien. But that was only fiction.

“My Dad called from work and talked to me. I asked him, but he won’t talk about it.”

“Yeah,” said Bergen.

“Why won’t he just come out and say he didn’t do anything?”

“What happens when you tell your mom that you didn’t do anything? Does it work?” asked Bergen.

“Well, no. But then I’m usually guilty.”

“But sometimes you aren’t, right? Sometimes you aren’t guilty.”

“And she still thinks I did it,” nodded Danny. “But Dad is different.”

“Is he?”

“Of course he is. He’s a grown-up. Innocent until proven guilty. It’s just us kids who have it the other way around.”

Bergen stared at Danny.

“Shit. Okay, I know.” said Danny. “But if he’d only explain, then everything would be back to normal.”

“No. Not everything,” said Bergen. “Your sister would still be gone, your dad would be pissed off that your mother ever blamed him in the first place, and your mother would be just as broken hearted as she is now.”

“So Dad’s not defending himself because Mom never should have blamed him. If only…”

“Yeah,
if only
.”

Danny turned his attention to the book. Scanning the pages, he tried to concentrate, his eyes threatened to tear. “The police were here last night.”

“What’d they do?” asked Bergen, his eyes large.

Danny sighed. “Took him away. My mom called them.”

I bet you think I did it? I bet you think I molested her, don’t you, you…

His father hadn’t said it, but Danny, sitting at the bottom of the stairs had filled in the blanks…
Bitch.

“Don’t go doing something stupid,” said Bergen.

“Who me? Be stupid?” Danny smiled weakly.

“Yeah.
You
. Danny.” Bergen moved closer, his face a foot away. “If you feel like doing anything about this, make sure you tell me, all right?”

Danny stared at the pattern on his bedspread.

“Danny. Understand? You are going to tell me if you decide to do anything like run away or something, right?”

Thinking of his father almost calling his mother a bitch, Danny lifted his head. He tried to smile back at his friend, but found it took more energy than he had.